Near the edge of the thicket, on the opposite side of the clearing from where Weston was standing, was the blackened stump of a big fir tree.

To this Curly was dragged, and several of the men were forced to hold him up while he was being securely bound with his back to the trunk.

About his feet dry wood was then placed, and half way up his body.

When this had been accomplished, the Indians formed themselves in a circle about the unhappy man, and began to chant a slow weird dirge in the native tongue.

Between them and the tree of punishment a small fire was burning, and the light from this clearly exposed the face of the bound man. His eyes were dilated with terror, his weak lower jaw had dropped, and his mouth was wide open. So overcome was he, that he had no strength left to stand, so his entire weight rested upon his bonds. Never was there a more pitiable object of abject terror and cowardice. But the Indians did not seem in the least affected by their captive's misery. With stern, impa.s.sive faces they went on with their chanting, which steadily increased in weirdness as they continued.

At length they ceased, and at once Sconda seized a burning brand from the fire and approached the prisoner. Then wild shrieks rent the air as Curly frantically struggled to free himself. He might as well have addressed his words to the trees which surrounded him, as to those grim natives of the north.

Sconda had already stooped, as if to touch the brand to the inflammable material about the victim's feet, when Weston stepped within the ring, and ordered him to wait. Sconda immediately straightened himself up and stepped back.

"Save me! Save me!" Curly yelled. "Don't let these devils burn me!

For G.o.d's sake, save me! Oh, oh!"

For a few seconds Weston stood with folded arms looking upon the helpless man. Then his lips curled in a sarcastic smile.

"You've got only yourself to blame for this," he began. "Did you not bet that you would defy all the power of Glen West, and lure my daughter to her ruin? You can't deny it."

"No, no, I don't deny it. I was a fool, a madman. But save me, oh, save me! Don't let them burn me!"

"Do you think you are worth saving, Curly Inkles? You are a plague-spot in any community. You have brought untold misery upon many innocent ones, and why should you be allowed to do so to others?"

"I will never do any harm again," Curly whined. "I swear by all that is holy that I will change my life."

"Bah, I wouldn't give the snap of a finger for all the oaths you make, Curly. You don't know the meaning of an oath. Your soul is so seared and blackened that one might as well try to change that stump to which you are bound into a living one as to transform you into a good citizen. No, it is better for you to be off the earth than on it."

"But it's murder!" Curly yelled. "Would you murder a helpless man?

You will hang for it, and all these devils here."

"How do you dare to speak about murdering a helpless man?" Weston asked. "What happened to Bill Ducett, at Black Ravine?"

At these words Curly's eyes fairly started from their sockets, and the perspiration poured down his face in great beads.

"W-what d'ye know about that?" he gasped. "W-who are you, anyway?"

"Oh, never mind who I am, or how much I know. It is sufficient for the present to say that I have all the knowledge necessary to stretch your neck. You have now run the length of your wild career, and it shows you that it is impossible to escape justice here or anywhere else.

But, there, I've wasted too much time talking to you, so get ready."

"Oh, oh, don't burn me!" Curly shrieked, as Weston turned and spoke to Sconda.

"Burn you? No!" was the contemptuous reply. "I wouldn't foul this place by burning a thing like you; it wouldn't be fair to others who have been brought here. They all were men with some sparks of manliness and spirit left in their bodies. But you, bah!"

He motioned to Sconda, who at once cut the bonds, and Curly fell forward at Weston's feet.

"Get up," the latter ordered, "and never let me catch you again on this side of the Golden Crest. The Indians will deal with you now. After that, they will dump you beyond the pa.s.s, and the sooner you hit the trail for Big Draw the better it will be for you. Thank your stars, Curly Inkles, that you have escaped this time."

There was much suppressed excitement in Glen West that night, for many had heard the shrieks of terror from the Valley of the Ordeal. But no one dared to question the four and twenty men who later that evening crowded into the store where they received a liberal supply of tobacco ordered by their Big White Chief. They were men who could be trusted, and they well knew how to keep a secret.

CHAPTER XVII

MAN TO MAN

Reynolds learned from Klota of Weston's return home, and he was anxious to meet the man who ruled Glen West, and was so greatly feared by the miners throughout the country. He could not believe that the father of such a girl as Glen could be the monster he had been depicted. He wished to see and learn for himself what the man was really like, and he hoped that he would be sent for at once to give an account of himself. Nothing, however, happened that evening, and he saw no more of Glen.

He was seated near the house when Curly was dragged by on his way to the Valley of the Ordeal. Although the shadows of evening were heavy, Reynolds realised who the victim was, and that he was being taken away for punishment, of what nature he could not tell. Going into the house, he questioned Klota, but received no satisfaction. The woman merely shook her head, and refused to give any information. This both puzzled and worried him. There was some mystery connected with this affair, and he made up his mind to find out what it was.

Hurrying down the street and past the store, he was almost to the edge of the thicket, when several natives barred his way, and sternly ordered him to go back. There was nothing he could do, so he was reluctantly obliged to obey. He returned to the store, and standing outside listened intently in an effort to learn whatever he could.

Neither did he have long to wait, for presently up from the gloomy thicket rose the blood-curdling yells of someone in distress, and he knew that it must be Curly undergoing the Ordeal, whatever that might be. A cold chill swept over him, accompanied by a fierce anger. Was this village the abode of murderers, with Jim Weston as their leader?

he asked himself. Were they murdering Curly down there, and had other men been treated in a similar manner? And would he himself be the next victim?

He had heard enough, and as there was nothing he could do, he went back to the house, where he pa.s.sed a sleepless night. He could not get those cries of distress out of his mind, and he wondered whether he should not try to escape under cover of night. He banished this idea, however, as useless. He thought, too, of Glen. Would she allow the Indians to put him to death? He recalled what she had said about her father; how little she understood him, and that she had no idea what he might do.

Early the next morning he was standing by the side of the lake, when he saw _The Frontiersman_ cutting through the water, headed downstream. A lone figure was standing well aft, and he at once recognized it as Glen. She waved her hand to him as the boat sped by, and he could see her standing there until a bend in the sh.o.r.e hid her from view. Going back to the house he learned from Klota that the master of Glen West had gone down to the Yukon River for his mail. It was always left at the trading-post by the steamers on their way down river. It generally took a whole day to make the trip there and back. This information caused Reynolds considerable disappointment, as he would not be able to meet Weston or his daughter that day.

The sun was just disappearing beyond the mountain peaks when _The Frontiersman_ returned, and ran up the creek to her wharf. Reynolds, watching, hoped to see Glen upon the deck. But he looked for her in vain, and he wondered what had become of her. Was it possible that her father had sent her outside? he asked himself.

Sconda did not come home for supper, but about an hour later he appeared with two other Indians, and informed Reynolds that the Big White Chief wished to see him. Reynolds now knew that the critical moment had arrived, so without the least hesitation he accompanied his guards, who conducted him at once to the big house on the hill.

Jim Weston was seated at his desk as the prisoner was ushered in. The first glance at the man told Reynolds that he was a person who would stand no nonsense or quibbling. Boldness must be met with boldness, and nothing but candour and truthfulness would serve him now. He looked about the room. Shelves well filled with books showed that their owner was a reader and a student. The walls were adorned with trophies of the chase, such as fine antlers of moose, caribou, and great horns of mountain sheep, while several large and valuable bear and wolf-skin rugs were stretched out upon the floor.

"What are you doing here, young man?"

These words deliberately uttered brought Reynolds back from his contemplation of the room.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked, looking Weston full in the eyes.

"Certainly. What did I ask you for, then?"

"Well, I am here because I was brought in on your boat."

"I know that," wag the impatient reply. "But what were you doing in this region?"

"I was looking for your daughter, sir. That's what I was doing."

Jim Weston's eyes grew suddenly big with amazement at this candid confession. Had the prisoner made any other reply he would have known at once what to say. But to see him standing so calmly there, looking him straight in the eyes, disconcerted him for a minute.

"Looking for my daughter, were you?" he at length found voice to ask.

"That's just it. But she found me instead."

"Are you not afraid to make such a confession, young man?"

"Afraid! Of what?"

"Of what might happen to you."

Reynolds shrugged his shoulders, and smiled.